Alea Iacta Est
by lord admiral belisarius
Summary: In the immortal words of Julius Caesar, the die is cast. The elves lost two wars against a people known as the Men of the Sea. Now, the Men of the Sea have arrived on Alagaesia to finish the fight. Is sorcery and steel a match for gunpowder and lead?
1. Chapter 1

I wanted to write an Inheritance fic giving some possible reasons for why they are a dying race. In this case, they lost two massive total wars against a group of humans unwilling to back down to them and willing to absorb massive casualties to win in a war of attrition, where the humans were superior. Ultimately, this is the essence of warfare, playing to your advantages while nullifying the enemy's. I also have a few personal grievances for the pure incompetence of military forces in the Inheritance Cycle, so I'm going to try and fix this issue. This means getting caught with their pants down and learning from their mistakes. That said, there are some competent commanders because no military command can be composed entirely of incompetent nitwits. That's just silly.

* * *

General Kaska looked out from the bow of the ship RKS _Stormchaser_, almost urging on to go ahead faster. The steamship was cruising on both steam and sail in its rush to get to its destination. General Kaska was a veteran of the Second Elf War. He was proud to bring the fight to the pointy-eared bastards for the honor of his anscestors. Now, having driven the elves from their homeland, the Coalition of Allied Human Governments had found them was bringing a final end to the war that had started five centuries ago when the elves, in their arrogance decided to attack the Republic of Kator, Blacktooth Confederacy, Heeseng Empire, and 13th Tribal Council. With him were twenty-five thousand soldiers of the Army, ten-thousand sailors of Navy, and five-hundred Knights of the Order all here for the greater glory of humanity to cleanse the arrogant elves from the world. It was beautiful. Only a few more weeks until they were to make landfall.

The biggest challenge of this was not convincing the House of Equals of going to war for they hated the elves with the same passion as every human in the Coalition. They were ready. They had weapons to slay dragons and counters to the magic that the elves used to lord over them like gods. They had learned from the last war five decades ago. So, he resigned himself to waiting before blooding himself against the forces of the Great Enemy. They would learn their folley under steel, fire, steam, gunpowder, and guts. The Enemy was weak, hiding behind enchantments and sorcery, unwilling to stand against the mustered might of humanity's will. The dead were to finally be avenged and wrongs righted.

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Queen Islanzadi called for a meeting of all elves. And so, all of their brethren came along with one certain Dragonrider. The voices murmured in question of what occasion would bring together all elves. Soon, their questions were to be answered.

"People of our kind, Igather you hear today to inform you of the inevitable. We knew they would come for us, holding a grudge after two centuries. The Men of the Sea are coming. Our seers of seen this and it has been prophesied. Now, it is with greatest regret, I must command you as Queen to march to war. They seek naught but out annihilation as we found from our wars and it will either be them or us. We will not let a foolish group of upstarts destroy us. We are the elves and for every one of us they slay, there will be twenty dead of their kind. Let us end this fight."

With that, cape twirling behind her, the Queen left. Once more, anscestral swords were taken from cases ready to spill blood again. Bows were made ready and arrows were being made.

Eragon caught up with the elven Queen and asked, "Who are these Men of the Sea to which you refer?"

The Queen turned around and told him, "As I said before, two centuries ago, we fought a war against Men from a large cluster of islands. They had claimed lands that rightfully belonged to elves and were despoiling the lands with their industry even then. We slaughtered them for some time before they brought themselves together and defeated our fleet of Silver Ships in battle. They then began beating us back using their foul weapons, screeching things that flew into our lines and often exploded and long tubes that spat forth stone balls with belches of flame and smoke. Still, for every one of our dead, there were at least two score of them. They couldn't beat us in single combat, so they turned to sneaky means to defeat us. Sadly, this worked and we were forced to leave, starving and sick.

Four-hundred and thirty-one years later, we tried to take back the lands again, this time bringing dragons and their riders. Somehow, they managed to defeat us and their foul weapons had grown more powerful as now, every soldier used a better version of the smokepoles. They then took our ancestral lands away from us. We fought for it, of course, every inch of our homeland. By the end of it, nearly half our population was dead from our desire to keep our anscestral home. Now, they occupy it, raping the land and doing all sorts of other travesties against nature. Also, these Men of the Sea, as we call them, posess absolutely not aptitude for magic. However, they have those among them that can do the unthinkable, deny magic. These 'blanks' are abominations against nature, as no creature should defeat magic by denying its existence."

Eragon shook his head, wondering how these people could do such a thing. How could they fight against the elves when they were the ones in the wrong? How could they slaughter the elves for no real reason? Their refusal to acknowledge their msitake was disgusting. It was shaming to call them kin.

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Seventeen Days Later

His men were unloading the equipment onto the beach like lines of ants. The strategy was simple, seek and destroy. Perhaps they could find other humans to aid them in their struggle against who had arbitrarily called themselves their betters.

It was amazing. He had fifteen thousand infantry, two-hundred howitzers, thirty walkers, one-hundred and fifty field guns, fifty mortars, and one-hundred rocket racks. In total, that were eighteen-thousand, nine-hundred and five fighting men. The other sixty-thousand and ninety-five were cooks, medics, mechanics, and the other support staff that every army needed. This didn't even count the five-hundred Knights of the Order whose support staff was factored into his own. It was time to set up camp and march to the land of the elves.

Galbatorix was a tall and imposing man with a handsome face and long, black hair. Now, he had something interesting to see. He had tried to scry it, but was somehow blocked. However, he knew where it was. Smiling, he went out to where his black dragon, Shruikan, slept. He called for the large beast to wake up and ordered servant put on the saddle. This business was something he should do himself.

Once this preparation was finished, he put on his full battle splendor. He gave orders to a servant to tell Murtagh that he was in charge for the moment. The boy did need some experience in command and the oaths of loyalty ensured he would not so something incredibly... rash and hasty. With that, the beast took off, tearing up the field with its powerful muscles while beating its wings to slowly get off the ground. Then, Galbatorix was off to the West.

Private Lau S'hawlin watched the sky for dragons that he knew the elves had. There, up in the sky, he saw a black speck. He took his spyglass to take a look at it and it was a dragon. Lau blew the bugle call as he went to get his rifle and affix its bayonet.

The camp was a tumult of activity as the alarm for a dragon sounded. The ships of the taskforce trained their guns to the sky. Walker crews scrambled to the giants, readying weapons and scanning the skies. As soon as the dragon came close enough to see clearly with the naked eye, the high angle guns of the ships erupted in puffs of smoke as they fired time-fused shells at the dragon and its rider.

One of the walkers, had managed to get its repeater ready and that was sending a hail of lead into the sky. Puffs of smoke burst as the timed fuzes exploded, coming behind the dragon. The gunners began to fuse the next shells to explode in front of the dragon and rid it from its existence.

Shrapnel whipped around Galbatorix as he closed in on the area. Using the language of the Ancients, he cried out, using magic so that all would hear and understand, "I come in peace. Let's settle this misunderstanding before someone gets killed."

Somehow, they ceased fire. Galbatorix brought his dragon down in an empty space outside the camp. Best to appear humble. They could be powerful allies. These men definitely had a foreign cast to them, being a combination of brown skinned fellows with dark hair and large builds, slimmer tanned men with dark hair, pale men with lighter hair, and those with a strange reddish cast complexion and bushy black hair. Of course there were other men, but these types of people appeared to be the most common. They were likely representing different peoples. Their open hostility was also noted. Smirking behind his helmet, the Emperor walked past with an aura of casual self confidence. They all wore khaki trousers with knee-high, brown frock coats of both the single and double breasted variety.

Through their mental link, Shruikan told him _I'm getting too old for this shit._

Galbatorix replied _In that case, I __am__ too old for said shit as I am older than you._

After a few tense minutes of waiting and having their unwieldy looking spear things pointed at him, a man came forward. He was an old man with a thick white beard and handlebar mustache. His uniform included quite a few ribbons and medals and his jacket was double breasted with five steel stars on each shoulder. He carried a straight, single-edged blade. It was no match for Galbatorix's own sword, but it was the sword of a soldier, not a night. It was unadorned, simple, and well used. It fitted its wielder.

They began to speak to one another in their harsh, rolling tongue. Feeling somewhat left out, Galbatorix mentally weaved magics to understand the language. He could have ripped the information from their minds, but that would have been impolite and left that person a lobotomized vegetable.

So, he interjected, "Excuse me gentlemen, but who are you? I am King Galbatorix of the Empire."

"You're a filthy, elf loving dragonrider," yelled one man in the crowd, "You think we haven't killed your kind before, you elf mutant. You forsook your humanity when you joined those bastards."

Somewhat baffled and rather miffed, Galbatorix returned, "I have slain all but one of the Riders. Why do you hate the elves so much? I mean, I hate them, but it is for rather personal reasons."

The old man in charge calmed the crowd with a gesture and stated in a gravelly voice, "We are soldiers of the Coalition of Allied Human Governments. We came to finish the fight with the elves for one final time and avenge every one of us that was slain by elvish hands. If you truly stand against the elves, than we may yet join forces to destroy them."

Galbatorix mulled this over in his head, "Well said. I must say that the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Come, let me show you a path to the capital. Also, how good are you? My last generals were incompetents that somehow slipped past the radar and ended up losing a good portion of my army. Maybe you can teach my men a thing or two. Furthermore, why do you wish to exterminate the elves?"

"I'll go with you, but only under escort of my knights. I don't trust you. I already saw more than enough of your kind in the last war. You see, two centuries ago, the elves attacked us without provocation, claiming that our lands were theirs. It took us twelve years, but we beat them back. Then, years later they came back. We defeated them and took their homeland over the course of seven years. I fought in that war. Now, we've found them again and have come to destroy them once and for all."

A junior officer smiled and said, "That's the Grand Old Man for you. Seventy-one years old and still kicking."

The Old Man smiled and replied, "Damn straight I am. Lets quit all this politics and polite speech for a while. You seem like a good man for a dragonrider. Glad their ilk is gone, killed too many good men, but we got them. I'm General Kaska. Pleased to meet you, King Galbatorix. Come, let's sit down for a drink? If I had the power, I'd reward you with our highest medal for killing most of the riders."

Galbatorix removed his helm and replied, "That would be excellent. No other existing rider has my skills. You will crush them with that barrage. However, there is one reason why only riders and massed armies with siege engines have killed riders: Magic."

The Old Man laughed and stated, "We can deal with that."

Galbatorix smiled and answered, "I think I'm coming to like you."

General Kaska grinned back. Still, he received hostile reactions from just about everyone. Even the General was guarded. He could mind rape them, but they were more useful alive and they appeared to be competent, something he sorely needed in allies. The biggest problem was the generals of the Old Kingdom. They were mostly bluebloods that bought their position and he hadn't bothered to remove them so as not to shake up the populace. Then came the Forsworn. They were excellent fighters, but they were all terrible generals and leaders. He was the only one who could command an army. Now, he could finally kill those damn Varden and their thrice damned dragonrider, Eragon.

Why he had put off killing the boy was beyond him, but that was hindsight. At that time, Galbatorix realized that he had mostly left military affairs to that Shade, Durza. He had been working out various methods of ensuring the flow of trade throughout his empire. In retrospect, this choice was by far the better as it meant there were finally paved roads to allow trade and the mass movement of armies. Besides, smacking down the young upstart while he thought he was all-powerful would be a very, very satisfying experience (for him) and a very painful experience (for Eragon).

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Eragon had returned to Nasuada to warn her of the Men of the Sea. She was at her court with her various advisers. Eragon bowed down to her and bore his warning. She was surprised by this news, but took it in stride.

She smirked and said, "Then we can probably play them against the Empire. We can avoid our own losses and get them to hurt the Empire."

Eragon remained unconvinced and replied, "I don't know. From what the Queen said, they are psychotically humanist. Besides, wouldn't that be rather underhanded?"

Nasuada snorted and told Eragon, "I'll do whatever it takes to win this war. Honor is for those who can spare it. It's why we knife fallen knights through the vision slits. You have much to learn about war, Shadeslayer."

Eragon was bout to say something before being interrupted by Nasuada, "If they are as psychotic as you say, then we would have to either avoid or fight them. They probably wouldn't take kindly to the Urgals and Dwarves in our ranks."

"I suppose not."

"And this is why I am the leader of the Varden and not you."

"If they are hostile, then I could destroy them with Saphira."

"No, they fought the elves at their height. This included dragonriders. That was fifty years ago. Who knows what they have now?"

"Of course. Is there anything you would like me to do?"

"Yes. Aid in training our magicioans."

Eragon turned to leave.

"Eragon."

He turned around.

"Don't train them like you would train a rider. Teach them more indirect magic that is less energy intensive. I don't want half of them dead or incapacitated like after the last battle."

"Yes ma'am."

"Dismissed."

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Eight Weeks Later

Private Tua was marching. His coat was unbuttoned and the sleeves rolled up. The fading heat of the desert sunset beat down upon him. It wasn't the heat that was the problem. His home was just as warm. The problem was the lack of moisture. Even so, the coat was worth it compared to getting a sunburn. He was carrying about fifty pounds of gear. His rifle weighed eleven pounds with a bayonet. He also carried forty-five rounds of ammunition, a bedroll, a canteen full of water, a mold for casting his own bullets, a one pound bar of lead, flint and steel, two impact grenades, one week's rations, an entrenching tool, a haversack, a mess kit, and the equipment for a collapsible tent. Unlike the earlier armies, every man carried a small tent. He also wore his helmet, a metal version of the umbyar, a traditional conical hat originating in Kator.

The army stretched out for nearly a mile, marching in a long line of men, carts, artillery, and walkers. They had reached the Hadarac Desert and had been travelling through the desert to deliver a suprise attack to the Varden of Surda to lure out their rider. It was move that no one had attempted before because the desert was that large. Their fleet was steaming to Surda's coast with its compliment of Marines. It didn't really matter which part of the pincer attack got there first because the ships were taking an army of Imperial soldiers led by General Nome D. Guyar.

There had been some problems though made apparent in the first few weeks, the walkers had some difficult operating in the loose sand. They kept sinking into the sand. This was solved through the application of sand shoes improvised from an empty supply cart to distribute the weight. The other, more insidious problem lay in the sand. The sand got everywhere. It got in the joints. It got in the hydraulics. It got in the pneumatics. It got in the gears. The only solution was to put tarps over the joints and even then, they had to be cleaned off without water so as not to wast the precious fluid.

The sand was a problem for everyone, getting into clothes and generally making life miserable. Luckily, after the first few days, General Kaska decided to travel during the cooler nights. The nights were definitely cooler but not in a good way; the temperatures were nearly freezing. Currently, they were on three-quarter rations in case their enemy implimented a scorched earth policy and stomachs did grumble like the soldiers did.

Private Tua marched on. Left, right, left, right, left, right, left. He was tired. Still he marched. Then night fell and the line halted for everyone to button up their jackets to proctect from the plummeting temperatures and biting winds. They drew a long brown line in the sand. Thoughout the night, they marched. They marched from sunset to sunrise. Then, they bedded down to weather out the day. As dawn came, Private Tua mindlessly set up his tent, stripped off his coat, and fell asleep with his boots on.

It was this same boring routine for the past few weeks save for a few incidents. A walker fell down and had to be righted and a wagon's axle broke. They then came to a small lake in a hilly region. General Kaska ordered the army to halt and get everything cleaned up. Canteens and water tanks were filled. Men bathed. Clothes were washed. Grit was worked out of the walkers. The camp was quite happy to get out of the desert. A local Surdan hunter watched this and left to warn the Varden.

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Two Weeks Later

Jacob Yorranson was the commander of a platoon of Varden infantry. At sixteen, he was a veteran of three years of guerilla action. He was tired. So very tired. Tired of the war. Tired of the ghosts of the past haunting his nightly slumber. Jacob had joined the Varden at the age of thirteen to escape drafting into the Imperial Army.

He took a drag on his cigar, inhaling the tobacco smoke. The stubidity of the brass sickened him. They had this strange idea that they could defeat the Empire in a decisive battle after the Battle of the Burning Plains. That was one big screw up after another. The commanders had them spend a week digging entrenchments and earthenworks. It was pretty good as it generally took six-to-one odds to take and hold ground from an entrenched enemy. Then the idiots had them charge the Imperials from around a mile away in full battle gear. That was the first big moment of stupidity in the battle. Luckily, the Imperials had their fair share of idiots and they ran out to meet the charge.

The battle broke into a melee as some Imperial units tried to remain in formation while others broke and tried to run, but impaled themselves against the spears of the best of the Empire's elite core of pikemen, the XVI Legion. They were a worthy foe. They fought with pikes until they were surrounded and the shafts shattered. They kept themselves in formation and drew swords. They knew they would die and leave crying lovers and widows. They fought for the honor of their country, right or wrong. The Legion's drummers beat out a marching cadence as the men advanced, singing their legion's song. They held out from several charges. Beating them all back. They never cracked once. In fact, the loss of every one of their soldiers seemed to make them fight harder. Even as catapults and ballistae of both sides fired into confusion of the melee and arrows rained down, they never faltered. They got to within a hundred yards of the Varden's fortifications.

Then Eragon came down and his dragon breathed fire into their ranks. Even as they melted, their comrades charged against into the maw of the dragon. The few that had pikes slammed those into the dragon before being wiped out through magic and a sweep of the dragon's tail. Still they pressed onwards. They charged a dragon with only their shortswords. Some had lost their weapons and they picked up rocks to beat against the hide of the dragon. They were magnificent. Eragon flew off, and they hurled insults at him.

The Urgal allies slammed into them. They did not break. Their standard-bearer planted it in the ground and drew his sword. No Urgal got beyond that line in the dirt. He remembered a wounded drummer boy being carried on the shoulder of an older soldier into battle. He saw that same drummer boy later, calling to his mother as his entrails struggled to remain in his body. The boy still drummed the cadence. He had never seen any man go toe to toe with an Urgal. He had never seen any man do this with only a dagger. He had never seen any man do this and win. He had never seen any man do this until that battle. This man, the standard bearer, picked the standard up in the air and waved it before charging. The remainder of the legion followed. The standard bearer was cut down by an Urgal. The man behind him picked up the standard and cut down the Urgal.

Their commander lead them in their motto, "Who are we?"

"WE ARE LEGION!"

"Who do fight for?"

"OUR COUNTRY AND BROTHERS IN ARMS!"

"Why do we fight?"

"FOR GOD, FOR KING, AND FOR COUNTRY!"

"Who are we?"

"WE ARE THE DEATH OF THE ENEMY! WE ARE THE NIGHTMARE THAT HAUNTS THEIR DREAMS! WE ARE THE SWORD THAT CUTS APART THE ENEMY! WE ARE THE SPEAR THAT IMPALES THE ENEMY! WE ARE THE BOOT THE GRINDS THE BONES OF THE ENEMY TO DUST! WE DESTROY THE ENEMY WHEREVER IT MAY HIDE! WE ARE STRONG! WE ARE ONE! LESSER MEN MAY FLEE WHERE WE STAND! WE ARE THE XVI LEGION AND THE ENEMY SHALL TREMBLE AS WE APPROACH!"

They charged Urgals. The political officer of the legion, recognizable by his black longcoat and two-handed warhammer slammed the head of the weapon into the skull of a Kull and spun around bringing the weapon into the chest of another Urgal. The weapon spun around again to bring it to bear on another Urgal. The hammer fell down like an avenging angel in an overhead blow. The Urgal crumpled to the ground, brains leaking from a shattered skull. A Kull came and smashed the wooden handle of the hammer with a massive club. The political officer rolled to the ground and drew a dagger before lunging back at the Kull that towered three feet above him.

Jacob remembered as four-hundred of legion were surrounded by the soldiers of the Varden. He heard one of them shout, "We're surrounded. That simplifies the problem."

Some of the soldiers began to make jeering calls toward the Varden that insulted their mothers and families, a gesture involving a raised middle finger, and some dropped their trousers to moon the Varden. Queen Nasuada herself came forward to offer the legion a chance to surrender. They had the audacity to call her "Whore of the Varden."

She ordered, "Kill them," in a deadly calm.

Jacob rushed forward in the human tide, shield thrown away and spear held in two hands. The Legion charged toward the direction of the retreating Imperial Army and smashed their way to their allies. The XVI Legion, now known as the "White Death Legion," was the most decorated unit in the Imperial Army. Still, they threw themselves into battle with a cold fury. They also became the only unit allowed to escort King Galbatorix.

Jacob wished the Varden had troops like them. No, he was stuck only with the bandits murderers and the dregs of society who didn't want to be part of the Empire. The Varden was so short on manpower, so they had to accept everyone who wanted a life away from t. The Imperial Army was many things, but it's volunteers were not criminals and they killed anyone who commited any such acts. He hoped these Men of the Sea were either a pushover or someone he could desert to. The Varden would fall apart once Galbatorix got serious and he wanted to be on the right side when that happened. These thoughts evaporated just as the contents of his brainpan were forcibly evacuated by a lead slug.

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Three Days Later

General Kaska looked at the pass where his army had set up camp. He had a swelling army of rebels and local militia. His scouts were conducting a stalling operation as he dug in his forces. His first line of defense was a long, stake filled trench followed by an earthen rampart. Behind the rampart were flamethrower troops, riflemen, and smoothbore field guns, behind this line was another rampart and fighting trench with riflemen and the rifled field guns. After this line were the mortars, howitzers and rocket launchers. The walkers were concentrated in the center with the howitzers. Mortars and rocket lauchers anchored the flanks. Men meticulously cleaned and oiled their weapons in grim determination for the battle.

The next morning, his scouts reported in. They had five killed and twenty-five wounded from their group. That night, the dead scouts burned in a funeral pyre to set their spirits free and scattered their ashes so they could give back to the land. The had bought the army a few days with their sacrifice.

The army of fifty-thousand was coming. It had started out as thirty-thousand, but local militias joined them, swelling their ranks. They had twenty-five thousand light infantry, fifteen thousand archers, eight thousand light cavalry, and two thousand heavy cavalry. The two armies met in a valley roughly a mile long.

Rockets shrieked from their launch tubes. In seconds, six hundred rockets were in the air. The Varden commander gave the order to scatter in the face of this strange magic. The rockets met the end of their time and exploded in air, sending down seventy-two hundred fragments. Roughly eight hundred soldiers were ripped apart and almost twice that number wounded. The next volley of rockets came and by this time people had shields over their heads or looked for cover from the scything fragments.

The Varden commander, looked over and saw the trails of smoke and ordered the cavalry to rush the positions rather than be pinned down and their horses maimed. Somehow, he got the rest of the army to begin advancing. Then, they met a third volley of rockets and a strange whistling noice. The rockets now hit the ground and exploded, sending shrapnel into the middle of the formations. Then one-hundred and fifty howitzer shells exploded over their heads while the rest fell down. One man was almost ripped in two as he took a direct hit from an unexploded shell. More fragments pinned them down. Officers rattled swords and urged the army onward to escape the fragments. Longbowmen halted at half a mile and began to send volleys toward their lines.

Artillery crews ducked under a wooden roofed shelter before going back out to man their weapons. The army covered some more ground before the rifled field guns fired. Mortars began to shell the bowmen. However, the case shot exploded too quickly and the fragments fell short.

The solid shot plowed holes through the lines of the infantry, showering their comrades in blood and gore. One officer raised his sword to urge on his troops before a 76 millimeter shell of iron ripped off his head. The body remained standing for a second as blood spurted out. The troops began to run away, but the press of bodies carried them forward into the killing zone. The other archers used shortbows and stopped to fire into the trenches. This was when fifteen thousand rifles fired at once in a single cacophonous blast of smoke. Thirteen thousand Varden went down. Many were simply shocked by the wounds. Many of the wounded were trampled.

They got within two hundred yards when the field guns errupted again, sending explosive shells into their ranks. Men flew into the air missing the lower half of their bodies. The rifles fired again, spitting lead death. Around one hundred and fifty yards away from the earthenworks, the smoothbore guns fired canister shot. Each of the seventy-five smoothbore cannons fire one round of canister shot. Each canister contained twenty cast-iron slugs packed with sawdust. The guns sent up a cloud of yellow sawdust as they fired. The effect was immediate and devastating. The cavalry had drawn close and were met with this wall of lead. Bodies hit the floor. Horses screamed in fear as they were torn apart. The dead slid into the first trench and the rest routed. The lightly armored infantry of the Varden met what the CAHG soldiers had nicknamed "The Woodchipper." They were torn apart and panicked. Grenades flew into the air and turned the tide of bodies to the other direction.

Bayonets were affixed and pilot lights were lit. The smokestacks of the walkers belched black smoke as they began to advance, repeaters sweeping the ground. The flamethrower was a weapon that contained ten gallons of jellied oil in a tank on the back. There was also a tank of compressed air that pushed the incendiary jelly through a tube to the pilot light that sent out a fifteen meter gout of flame. These were turned upon human bodies. Men ran around as sticky flames coated their bodies. They tried to extinguish it by rolling on the ground, but this only spread the mixture. The men wielding these terrifying weapons were first to advance. Then came the regular soldiers with bayonets affixed. The bayonets stabbed and slashed. There were some isolated pockets of resistance, but these melted at the approach of the walkers.

Each walker was a ten meter tall thing made of iron. It had stubby, wide legs and feet. The torso was hexagonal in shape and contained a rotating turret with a 7.6 centimeter rifled gun. The head was cylindrical and pushed forward to make room for the smokestack. This gave it a hunched over appearance. The driver and commander were in the head. On top of the head was a repeater. This hand cranked weapon could fire 13 milimeter ammunition at a rate of two-hundred rounds per minute; however, this was closer to one-hundred and fifty rounds per minute in practice to keep the barrel from overheating. The arm operator was located in a small pilothouse in the upper torso and operated the arm mounted weapons: a bearded two-headed axe and a pneumatic spike launcher. On the right and left shoulders were respectively, a 4 centimeter smoothbore gun and a rocket rack with six tubes. Each required a crew of twenty to operate. They were designed to fight dragons. The walkers were given the official name of "Dragonslayer Mk.1." Now, they were turning weapons designed to fight dragons on infantry.

The killing persisted to the end of the day. The Varden army had forty-thousand casualties. In comparison, General Kaska's army took one-thousand casualties. Three-hundred died and seven-hundred were wounded.


	2. Chapter 2

This is the logical result of using some of the tactics used at the Battle of the Burning Plains against an enemy not commanded by morons

* * *

Two Weeks Later

"Sir. There is an enemy presence ahead. They should arrive in twelve days or so. It contains at least 60,000 soldiers, probably more. They have a quite a few catapults and bolt throwers. They also have their dragon rider. I saw him keeping the dragon on the ground. The elves probably warned him of our anti-air weapons. I don't think he could last against thirty walkers," said the scout to General Kaska.

"What forces are we expecting?"

"About half are light infantry armed with shields and hand weapons or polearms. About a tenth of their force are archers. I couldn't see any heavy infantry, but I could see about two thousand light cavalry and one thousand heavy cavalry. With regards to their artillery, they had about three hundred catapults and two hundred bolt throwers."

"Can you put some booby tracks in the path of advancing army. Slowing their advance can give us more time to prepare for battle.

They occupied several villages in this area. It was thanks to the strict disciplinary system of their that, a few mix ups aside, there wasn't much conflict between the Surdan civilians and Kaska's army. It was understandable. While most invading armies pillaged and sacked towns for supplies, this strange army of foreigners was impressively well behaved, actually buying and bartering for goods rather than simple taking them. Even nominally friendly armies reserved the right to simply seize supplies from villages. This refreshing change made the villagers very helpful to the occupiers.

Their occupation of the villages gave another important piece of info to the invaders. A fair bit of the populace saw the king as either mad or a puppet of the Varden. Such information could readily be turned against the Varden and the Surdans. Truth could do far more than any propoganda. If they were able to consistently beat the Varden-Surdan alliance's forces, the will to fight could be removed from the populace. The most important part of defeating them decisively was to only do battle when the battle was won before it had begun. Unlike the battle in the valley, there was no easy kill zone to set up on the open field. Much of the plains were covered in tall grasses. Not only was this ideal terrain for hit and run skirmishing, but a manmade brushfire was a viable tactic..

General Kaska spoke to a junior officer assisting him, "Get me Brigadier Darlish. Tell him it is urgent and that I have a mission for him."

The junior officer saluted the general and left the tent. The General turned back to the maps he had received of the region. The one in front of him was filled with the markers indicating the enemy forces. He had markers for his own forces next to him as he began to make a battle plan for if the army simply did not turn self destruct with his next move.

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That Night

Eragon sat down with the other two commanders of the forces against the Men of the Sea. They had reports on the weapons of the men. They were undoubtedly lethal but nothing courage and cold steel could not triumph against. No, what disturbed him most was the inability of the magicians in the army to do anything against an army without any magic users. Islanzadi had told him of this, but it seemed preposterous and exaggerated. The elves themselves were not even quite sure of how they did it for regular people.

Even so, he did read up on annals of this war if only to figure out how they killed dragons and their riders. The records indicated that they used some sort of smoke belching monstrosity armed with a multitude of their heavier weapons and a pair of blades the size of a horse. They were flammable however. The ones of this day were apparently made of iron. How would it be possible to get something the size of house made of iron to even move was beyond him. Even if magic were being used, such power could easily kill the magician. These men had no magic. What could they possibly use?

Nonetheless, the enemy was going to be outnumbered. Even Eragon's force outnumbered the enemy by a good five thousand at the least and his force was but one of three. He walked into the tent. The other two commanders were the Surdan generals Hlaine and Rodrick. Hlaine showed open contempt and doubt for Eragon's abilities as a commander, but Eragon thought the man was simply being arrogant and underestimating his abilities.

This was once more brought to the surface as the scarred Surdan slammed his hands on the table and loudly said, "I don't know what kind of lala land you're living in but we are extrememely vulnerable right now. An army of this size doesn't march on nothing. We have a massive baggage train. If the enemy attacks out supply lines, our army could be put out of action before it ever hits the field. Furthermore, it is simply impossible to feed and supply such a large army by living off the land. However, if we were to split our forces to approach the enemy from separate directions, the enemy forces will be unable to counter a coordinated attack, forcing him to split his attention and forces between three different forces that each outnumber him. I beg you to reconsider. It would be folly to remain like this."

'I understand your position, General, but I think a unified central thrust is the best solution. Besides, all three forces would need to arrive very soon together."

"Not necessarily, as long as they arrive within a day or two and the commanders on the field don't do something monumentally stupid like committing forces from earthen defensive positions to charge a mile into a distant enemy, it should work fine. In the previous defeat, our forces were bunched up and left without room to effectively maneuver. They could either advance forward into the enemy or retreat. What you advocate is the same strategy except now, our enemies have room to maneuver and tap dance around us while picking apart our units if their commander is any good," answered Hlaine.

"What if their commander is not good?" questioned Eragon.

"A plan that hinges on the incompetence of the enemy is a fool's plan, especially against a mostly unknown force," answered Hlaine, nearly snapping at the young man, "How about you wipe that arrogant look off your face and listen to someone with some actually experience in military campaigns. I'll say it frankly, I think you are compromising my ability to perform the mission. If I had any say in this, I'd be keeping your ass as far away from a position of leadership as possible. I know about the shit you pulled at the Battle of the Burning Plains. A bunch of our dead were found to be burned to death by dragonfire and I have plenty of reports from soldiers about how you indiscriminately fired into the melee, killing hundreds of friendlies. You are irresponsible and know nothing."

"Well, I'm willing to learn," fired back Eragon.

"No, boy, you sure as hell ain't. I've been trying pound the basics of military strategy and tactics into that fancy skull of yours and you've been dismissing it. You need a god damn attitude adjustment, pretty boy. Get the hell out of my tent and let the people who actually know what they're doing do their jobs!" growled Hlaine.

The third commander, Rodrick, a large man with leathery skin and a full beard of dark hair, sipped on his wine for a moment before trying to calm down the Surdan general, "I think you're being a little harsh on the boy. It is his first command."

"It's the little shit's attitude that bugs me. He seems to miraculously believe that he knows best because he is a rider. Of course, in reality, he doesn't know what he's talking about. This kid is going to screw it up. We have to listen to him because he'll go cry over to Nasuada and then this ends up in the ear of King Orrin. Then I'll be out of a job," said Hlaine, taking a sip of his wine.

"I suggest we split our formations from the main army to follow your plan. At the very least, he understands that a commander has to be present at the battlefield. More pragmatically, we can use his army as fodder for their weapons. When we arrive they should probably be low on ammunition. If we arrive on the same day as Eragon, we can sit out at a safe distance, and let our troops be fresh and well rested for battle. I doubt they can do anything against a dragon," offered the other commander.

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At Kaska's tent, he had the Brigadier Darlish sitting across from him. Darlish was a skinny guy with dark skin and a near perpetual good mood. The men liked him. He may have driven them hard, but he held himself to the same standard. Darlish was also a capable commander who could be trusted to act independently and make sound decisions. This was why Kaska had called the man to him.

"Darlish. I have a mission for you. Take some scouts and your brigade out. I want you to make their army starve. If there are any villages you find, get them to take as many supplies as they can back to our lines and destroy what they can't carry. Raid the enemy supply train; take their supplies for your own. Take out any scouts and foraging parties. With any luck, this will bring them to their knees, and we can win without a battle of annihilation."

General Kaska watched Brigadier Darlish leave with a long line of brown coated troops under the cover of moonlight. Even with this done, it was time to dig in to entrenched positions to grind the enemy army to pieces before launching a swift and exceedingly violent series of counterattacks from multiple directions upon the enemy.

Field hospitals were already being set up in barns and similar buildings. The villagers were still helpful, but were growing fearful as they saw the soldiers set themselves with a grim determination to build lines of trenches. They were able to convince the leaders of the villages to give as much labor as they could reasonably spare to the building of these defenses. The right flank was held by several batteries of dug in artillery on a hilltop. A river anchored the left flank. Engineers set to making it difficult to cross with spikes and nets. They also worked in several traps into the woods across the riverbank from pits with spikes on the bottom to more elaborate traps that triggered explosives. Villagers were not allowed into the forest and few demonstrations on animal corpses made a graphic example of why you didn't want to trip any of the traps.

The walkers were spread out across the line. They could traverse the hills albeit slowly as the walkers had difficulty traversing inclines. They were designed to march with an infantry assault, destroying heavier targets and turning their rockets, light cannon, and repeater to the sky to sweep them of dragons. The massive axe and pneumatic spike were designed to give an edge in close combat against the scales and muscle of a dragon, or in the destruction of fortifications and buildings. As the saying went, rock beats scissors, scissors beats paper, paper beats rock, walker beats everything.

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4 Days Later

Over the past four days, Darlish and his men had been "preventing villages from holding any logistical value to the enemy." In practice, this meant that it was his job to send out groups of soldiers to villages to get them to abandon their villages and take what could and destroy what they couldn't by any means necessary. Most villagers were more than willing to pack up and run away in the face of a clash of two armies. It was not the standard operating practice to burn the fields and other such actions, but armed soldiers were very convincing in persuading them to do as they said.

Now, with his soldiers hidden in the tall grasses of the plains, he came upon the forward foraging elements of the enemy army. Darlish let them pass. There was no reason to let the enemy know that there was a division in the area and there really wasn't anything to forage; he and his men had seen to that. After this raid on their baggage train, they could then begin skirmishing with the enemy.

They were a weary lot. Their clothes were stained and dirty. There was little uniformity in the enemy. They looked more like a mob of armed men than an actual fighting force. A common uniform was the mark of a disciplined and unified force. A force with discipline and cohesion would always outperform the force without such qualities. While units here and there had uniforms, there was no army wide uniform. As such, the army was probably made of a large mixture of units of qualities varying from very good to horribly bad.

As the army stopped for the night, Darlish spoke in hushed tones to the commanders who would spread the information down the chain of command, "Here's the plan, we hit their supply train tonight. Get in as quietly as possible, take whatever we can carry, and torch the rest. Rorind, your battalion is going to be covering the other two. I trust your discretion with this important task. Luftin, Civich you two are on the snatch and grab mission. In the poor lighting and the irregular nature of their forces, you should be able to get in without any problems. Kill quietly. Let the guys who speak the language embedded in our forces do the talking. The rest can stand around a look menacing until we have to kill them."

"Sir, are we going in with just daggers? I don't think it would be a good idea to go in with rifles since that might expose us," asked Civich.

"I suggest having the men with swords come out for this. Swords should not be too strange. Of course, the talking team is just there to take out the guards. The snatch and burn group should be fine with rifles and bayonets."

Around forty officers and NCOs had stripped off their coats. Several attached Imperials were there to communicate with the Varden. The Imperials talked with the guards at the supply train for a little bit, giving time for them to get by the guards they had decided to kill. The Imperials finished talking and then made a hand motion. Swiftly, they grabbed the guards' mouths and stabbed them repeatedly with daggers, swords being too unwieldy at such close quarters. There was whistle into the distance, an all clear sign, and slowly, soldiers in brown coats crept from the side. They were carrying sacks and unlit torches. They began to rifle through the supplies for food and drink. There was a shout as someone came upon them. Torches were lit and thrown onto the wagons.

The raiders slipped away as enemy soldiers ran toward the now cheerfully burning supply train. This was when Rorind ordered his battalion to open fire into the camp. A volley of bullets punched indiscriminately into it, killing and maiming not only the fighting men but the camp followers as well. The other two battalions then saw this as an opportunity to form a lose skirmish line and fire their own devastating volley of lead into the camp before running off. Wind blew the noxious, sulfurous cloud of gunsmoke into the camp, spooking the horses, which caused even more chaos and havoc. In this confused mayhem, the soldiers that had instigated this were able to slip away without so much as a single casualty.

The next day, Eragon found himself flying over the fields when a long line of brown caught his eye. It was the enemy.

_Saphira, let's do this._

_Of course, Eragon._

The two swooped down like a falling star upon the men. As they drew closer, smoke came up from the long column of soldiers. It was like a thunderous crescendo even this far away. Eragon could hear a zipping noise. The elves had told him their weapons only reached out to about a hundred yards, but this was almost three times that distance. Pieces of lead shredded Saphira's wing.

_Eragon, my wings are injured. We need to get out of here._

With that, Eragon banked off from the enemy soldiers. Trying to get them was like trying to catch smoke. Whenever he sent raiding cavalry after them, they would either cut down the horses or simply slip away into the tall fields of grass. They would crawl on their bellies for days to escape detection. Now, he had almost no horses left and supplies were running even lower. He hadn't eaten anything for the past few days, since there was nothing to eat and the enemy around him would ambush and attack foraging parties. It was horrible. He couldn't know when a line of brown coated soldiers would pop up from the grass to fire a volley at his troops and run away. Nonetheless, his scouts had reported that main force of the enemy was close. It was a few days march, but parts of his army had already deserted. He had given a rousing speech to the men, but a few more men deserted every day. What had once been a proud army of 25,000 was now fairly reduced. Eragon had not the heart to execute any deserters he found. A commander shouldn't execute his own men.

After a few days march, he came to the enemy lines. They had dug in, but he ordered his men to do likewise for the the night. They would charge at dawn.

xxxxxxxxx

"Excellent work. Not only did you just do what I told you. You went above the call of duty to remain in contact with the enemy and force him to ditch most of his heavy weapons. Excellent job, but where is the rest of the army. It seems a little small to only have a force of this many fighting men in front of us compared the to 60,000 I was warned of," said Kaska.

"These were the only men we came across, sir," truthfully answered the Brigadier.

"They must have split along the way. I'm going to need to get the army practice getting out of the trenches and swinging to either flank. I hope we can break them quickly. Otherwise we'll be worn down under progressive waves of armies. We should probably spot them on this relatively flat ground and the trapped forest should slow them down on that flank. I'm going to need to get the scouts out to give me advance warning on these two armies," said Kaska, pacing back and forth in his tent.

As night fell across the battlefield, fires could be seen on both sides. There was a huge contrast between the fresh, rested CAHG troops who had received a hot meal and the worn out, tired and starving troops a kilometer away from them. The invaders surprisingly had the villagers on their side but treating people better than what a friendly army would do had that sort of effect.

As with many battles, it was decided before it began. Well trained, well rested, and well fed troops in prepared defensive positions with artillery support against irregular, fatigued, and starving troops with barely any artillery. That night, General Kaska walked along the entire line. They were a fine group of brave young men willing to make the other poor bastard die for his country. They were his soldiers and he was proud of them. He was keeping Darlish's brigade as his reserve, letting them rest. The enemy should be shot to pieces very quickly. The walkers would get a chance to show that their name of Dragonslayer was not just for show. It was just as planned.

It rained that night. It was not as much of a problem for Kaska's troops. They had time to make their trenches relatively dry with covering and drainage ditches. The enemy's earthenwork defenses turned to mud. Kaska's soldiers were silent. Artillery had been moved around to target the infantry. The rifled guns were aimed at the siege engines. With percussion fused shells and their long range accuracy, they were perfect for the job of counterbattery fire.

An order to fire came in the early morning. A bugle note echoed across the misty field of battle. Then, came a cacophonous orchestra of death. There were the heavy bass sounds of the howitzers and mortars, the low whistles of the rifled guns, the deeper pounding of the smoothbore field guns, and the screaming shrieks of the rockets. Round shot slammed through men. In these early morning conditions, their lethality was hindered because the wet ground impeded their ability to bounce and skip off the ground. Nonetheless, they efficiently plowed through everything in their way. The fires of the rockets arched up and back down to earth, sending metal splinters into men. Rifled guns slammed into the pieces of medieval artillery, turning them to masses of splinters that maimed, killed, and wounded. Even if the fuse was faulty, any hits rendered them impossible to use. Mortars and howitzers arced up before timed fuses turned iron spheres into a steel rain. Armor was no protection against these weapons. The men wanted to flee, but the dragon rider behind them kept them in line. He had a fearsome reputation for killing his own side; there was no need to give him an excuse.

"Charge!" Eragon cried as he took off from the ground with Saphira. His men obeyed his command and charged out from their trenches. Archers fired volleys of arrows toward the trenches. Most fell short and the artillery kept the archers pinned. The guns fell silent. Men went over the top, weapons in hand. By this time, the guns had reloaded. A volley of solid shot ripped through the closely packed ranks of this kind of army.

A foul smoke filled the air, not just the sulfurous smoke of the enemy weapons, but a darker smoke. The iron giants had awoken from their slumber. Smoke blasted from their smoke stacks. Rockets screamed into the air toward the young human-elf hybrid that was a dragon rider. He flew higher, away from these enemies. As he dived down, cannon opened up, sending shot through Saphira's wings. She could still fly though, and the armor did protect her. He heard a whistling as rounds flew through the air from the pintle mounted repeater. As he drew closer, he could see the look of fear on the faces of the shoulder gunners as they hid behind their gunshields and the commander as he popped back down into the command center of the machine. He could probably see the dragonfire readied in Saphira's mouth.

The blue dragon slammed into the vehicle, knocking it the floor. The shoulder gunners were tossed from the walker like the ragdolls of an impetuous child. Glass shattered, some going into the driver's eyes. Iron plate buckled under the weight of the dragon.

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"Ah God. Shit! My eyes. I can't see. I've got blood in my eyes. Tell me I'm alright," screamed the young driver of the walker.

The commander, climbed up to the man, as the walker was now on its back.

"You'll be fine. We're gonna get you better. Now move those joysticks and kick the fucker," said the commander with his share of jagged cuts from the shattered glass.

The dragon was in front of him. He could see the gaping maw and the flames of fire. The legs flailed upward at the beast but they did nothing.

"We've got to get dow-" yelled the commander but was cut off as a blast of dragonfire ripped into the compartment.

It burned his back horribly, but missed him for the most part. His driver and arm operator were not so lucky, being burned into things that could barely be called human. The controls were a red hot, twisted mess. Even so, he dragged himself up to the position of the arm operator and pulled the burning corpse out of the seat and put himself into it. He gripped the red hot joysticks that controlled the arms. His hands hurt horribly as the red hot surface caused the skin of his palms to melt and blister. It almost glued his hands to them. The commander pulled the right stick with all his might, warping the metal with the force. The arm slowly but surely began to force the dragon's claw off it. He swung it around, slamming nearly a ton of metal with a chisel-like edge into the side of the armored dragon. The armor caved and buckled under this mighty blow.

He swung the arm around again, but the dragon bit into the metal arm. It then ripped and tore with all its might. Oil under pressure sprayed out like some alien blood. He maneuvered the pneumatic spike until it was pressing against the underbelly of the dragon. Burned and mangled hands wrapped around the trigger. He began to laugh like a man possessed. There was a click of metal and nothing hapenned. He pulled the trigger again. The spike didn't fire from its tube. The claws ripped open the gun compartment of the walker. The commander saw the great beast put its maw into the compartment. He heard the screams. Then there was silence as a bloodied snout removed itself from the gunnery compartment. The engine compartment was next. It was going to go for him last after it had killed his comrades. He wasn't going without a fight. The commander ripped his hands from the joysticks. His hands were raw and bleeding. He removed the pistol from its holster, steadied it with his other equally mangled hand. He pulled the hammer back.

"You! Hey you! You lousy son of a bitch! Come and get me! I'm waiting! What are you? Chicken? You pussy, come out and fight me like a man! I'm waiting!" howled the commander, screaming his defiance to the world. He steadied himself and fired. The bullet glanced off the dragon's armor. He pulled back the hammer once more and lined up his shaking hands with the rider. His ruined body protested, and his hands began to shake more and more. He squeezed the trigger. Even that hurt. His vision exploded into another cloud of smoke and fire. He laughed. It didn't matter anymore if he hit or missed.

The rider's sword was glowing with a blue fire. He could see that through the smoke filled haze that was his vision.

"I'm an immortal!"

He pulled the trigger.

"I'm immortal!"

He fired once more.

"I'll live fore-"

"Brisingr!"

A wave of blue fire swept from the sword to shouting and laughing man. His hand exploded as the fire cooked off the powder in the pistol. The blue magical fires, far weaker than they should have been, consumed the laughing madman.

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Ever increasing amounts of fire turned the rider away from the lines. Thousands of rifles volleyed and thundered into the ranks of halfhearted charge. Canister rounds shredded men in cones of destruction. Out of this cloud of gunsmoke advanced disciplined ranks of men with bayonets affixed. A line of steel advanced. The soldiers began to simply throw down their arms. They were hungry and fatigued and they weren't doing anything to the enemy while he ripped men in two. There was nothing in this for them. Disillusioned and broken they surrendered. They were no longer an army, merely a mass of broken men. This was a complete and total victory.

As General Kaska surveyed the killing field and watched the dragon flee with his rider, he could but smile and say one thing, "I could ask for no better men than the ones that stand before me."


End file.
